Spar
by xoVanilla-Bean
Summary: Madge finds a way to funnel her rage in the aftermath of destruction and death. Gale helps. — Madge lives!PostWar!AU; Madge/Gale


A/N: I just wanted to practice writing fight scenes. My Madge voice was also calling me, so I figured some Madge/Gale wouldn't hurt. HAPPY READING I LOVE ALL OF YOU.

**SPAR**

* * *

"Again."

Madge rolls over and lunges toward his legs. He side steps easily. Too easily. Madge scowls in frustration, hopping up and anticipating his counter. He'll attempt to bait her, wait out her impatience. She's aware of his tactics by now. Yet even knowing this, she can't help it. She wants to wipe off his knowing smirk. It bleeds smugness all over his face. A nice sucker punch would do the trick. She lunges again, and he moves out of the way. Using her momentum, he swings her around so that her arms are pinned behind her.

"Again," he breathes into her ear.

She grunts, jerking against him. He lets go of her, and she whips around, jumping onto his chest and trying to tackle him to the ground. He takes multiple steps backwards but retains his footing. His lips twist up into a grin. She glares down at him.

"Is this the only way to get you this close to me?"

She slides off him to the mat, pushing him away.

"Shut up, Hawthorne."

He laughs. It is a low and deep rumble. It is the sound of irritation. It is grating like nails on a chalkboard.

She drops and sweeps her leg at his ankles. He jumps backwards. She jabs with her right hand, feints, hooks with her left. He bobs, blocking her hook with his forearm. She brings her knee up to his stomach and he slips off to her right. She elbows, aiming for his jaw while he's preoccupied with her knee. It should hit—it _needs_ to hit—but he bobs and swivels behind her, an arm locking around her neck and squeezing. He cuts off her windpipe.

"Again."

A scream is building up in her chest, locked inside of her by his arm. He releases her, and she tries to find her zen, that calm bubble of forbearance, that relinquishment of anger. She's been trying meditation and yoga with little success. She searches inside of herself for that "still pond of water", but all she can find is a kettle on the verge of boiling.

_The serenity is a deep trench inside the mind._ _Look inside of you, into the darkness. Grasp ahold of it, cover yourself in the calm. _The lady's voice on the recording is gentle and soothing. Soft. Kind. Madge imagines what she might look like, with shiny brown curls, her eyes closed, her nose pointed in a feminine curve. She's probably wearing all white, attempting to grow wings, desperate to be an angel, serene and beautiful. The image in her head makes Madge want to smash the orbit around her closed eyes and mar the blinding white. All the soothing only flares up a barrel of rage. Madge oft times thinks all that's inside of her is gunpowder, exploding at the mildest annoyances.

Hence, sparring practice. It had been Paylor's idea, and she had been right. It's the only thing that seems to help her. Usually. Now that her partner has changed due to unforeseen circumstances, she's reverting backwards.

If she can only find Hawthorne's weaknesses, then maybe she'll achieve that blessed peace.

She takes a deep breath, turning around to face him. She lowers her shoulders, finding her fighting stance. "Again. Is that the only word you can say?"

"I'll say something different if you can ever manage to best me."

Gale Hawthorne is a punk and a half. Madge has fantasized him having a bloody nose and black eye too many times to be considered sane, even before this whole thing. She circles him, waiting. She promises not to make the first move. She needs to watch his offense. His defense is too good. She'll never get past him at this rate. He watches her closely, tracking her feet and her stance. She watches his eyes, trying to predict his future moves, needing to find his tells.

Eventually, he feints forward to her right. Her evasion is too wide as she anticipates his move to the left, and his knee contacts her ribs. She falls and lands on her bottom, grunting, her hand going automatically to the pain in her side. Though they have padding protecting them, his blows are still strong enough to sting. She waits for the _Again_, but it doesn't come. She glances up, and Gale hesitates. He reaches forward with a tentative hand.

"Are you alright?"

He's used to sparring with males, she thinks. He's never truly sparred with a girl. She brings her other hand up to his, wincing for the full effect. When his palm is tight in her own, she yanks him down as hard as she can. The surprise on his face is there and gone in a flash. He's going to roll into a grapple. That's the only move available. As he begins to roll, she darts onto his back, hooking her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips. He uses the momentum to flip forward, changing their direction. Madge manages to hang on, but she loses her breath when they land on her back. Gale has to weight two hundred pounds and change, and he's got several inches on her. She continues to grip him, but his upper body strength overpowers her, and he's able to break through the hold on his neck. She fights his grip, jerking her arms as much as she can muster, his hands feeling like metal bangles. His hands relent after significant effort on her part, and she is able to slip away, her arms snaking around his neck again.

"Give it up," she hisses into his ear. She relentlessly squeezes her thighs higher up on his waist, mentally envisioning severing his body in half with them.

"You wish," he rasps. He goes to break her guillotine hold, but she pushes her body with all her might to the side, knocking off his balance and hitting their sides on the mat. They begin to roll around in a mad scramble. Gale switches tactics and begins trying to unwind her legs. She contracts her whole body in a terribly hard squeeze, effectively discouraging his advances. Then, suddenly, he must use the last of his strength because he balances on his hands and knees and manages to stand. Madge rocks again, and he begins to stumble before falling straight backwards. In that split second, Madge thinks about letting go.

She doesn't. They hit the mat full force, and Madge thinks her spine might have cracked from the impact of his weight. She hates herself for it, but she finally succumbs and releases him. He rolls off her quickly, going to pin her arms before he sees she is incapacitated.

She can hardly breathe, arching her back, trying to coax her body to normalize. The wind is knocked out of her so completely, she must close her eyes until it passes.

"Undersee," he says briskly. He hovers above her. "I…Are you…"

"Urghh," she tries to scowl and groan, but no words will come out of her. She curls in on herself until she can breathe again. After a short eternity, she places a palm against the mat and pushes herself up. She gives him her best glare.

"I'm _fine._" She heaves another breath. "Don't you dare ask me if I'm okay again."

He frowns. "Should we check in at the Med Bay?"

"There is no _we,_" she says, her voice a whistle. It's embarrassing. "And no. What part of _I'm fine_ don't you understand?"

He opens his mouth then closes it. Wisely. She goes to stand, and he stays back. The one good thing about him. He learns fast.

She walks around, letting the pain ebb and diminish from her body. She hops around, gives herself a quick self-assessment. Her insides jolt with the gentle impact, but she's fine. The Med Bay can wait. It can wait forever. She hates the place.

"Say your favorite word," she says.

"Madge…"

She pierces him with her eyes. He sighs.

"Again."

"Do _not_ go easy on me."

Then she lunges.

* * *

He doesn't go easy on her. Madge will say it's simultaneously the best and most annoying thing he has to offer. He listens to her. What an absolute ass.

He also tries to reign back their punches and kicks to teach her different tactics. He doesn't mean it as a slight against her sparring capabilities, but it certainly feels like it is. Madge can learn under others, including Paylor and other respectable authority figures, but Gale Hawthorne? It's hard to swallow her pride when he puts forth effort to show her different combinations that might help her have a successful takedown against him.

Regardless, the reason she's sparring isn't to learn. It's to release stress. It's to fight. It's to find her center for one evening.

"If you would just—"

"Save it, Hawthorne."

She sends a roundhouse kick to his head. He ducks under, sending a hook toward her chin. She spins around, evades it, and aims a back kick to his stomach. It finally lands, but it doesn't give him pause. It is enraging.

"You could put more force into your kicks if you plant your foot away from you."

She ignores him.

He jabs, she dodges. She grapples at his neck, attempting a knee to his face. It's messy. He's too strong for her with such a forward attack, and he catches her knee, pushing it out of the way so hard, Madge almost loses her balance. She tries to roll with the momentum, still hanging on to his neck, falling backwards and pulling him down with her. She brings her knees forward, jamming them up into his torso, making him fly over her. He lands on his back, but he gets up quickly. So does she. They face each other. Again.

"Can't you just stay down for once?"

"Sure, if your attacks actually hurt," he answers.

She grits her teeth. He grins at her.

"You know you're faster than me. You should use that to your advantage," he says.

Her eyes narrow. "Stop trying to give me pointers."

"I would if I didn't feel so bad for your continual losses."

She knows what he's doing. Goading her, baiting her. Boiling the water in her kettle. He wants to play it that way? Fine.

She runs forward at him, knowing he'll expect this. He shifts his body weight, going on the defensive. She raises a fist, letting it fly toward his jaw. He takes a quick step to the left to dodge, but she doesn't follow through with her jab. She twists on her right foot, her left leg swinging and her foot knocking into his neck. She's too close to get it any higher, but he isn't expecting it. His head bobbles like a doll.

The force is enough to knock him to the mat. An explosive streak bounces through her, and she jumps on top of him, pinning him down by his arms. She settles her bottom on his stomach unnecessarily, but why let him breathe easy?

"Walked right into that one," she burrs, the adrenaline rushing through her like a hit of morphling.

He blinks up at her, his eyes clearing. "I'd tell you good job, but we've been sparring for a week and this is only your first takedown."

She grimaces, the adrenaline fading at his words. "I'll give you a concussion next time."

"You say that like there will be a next time."

She opens her mouth but is cut off. He moves so quickly, she doesn't realize what's happened until he's on top of her. He flipped them over. He _flipped them over. _She is so angry, she can howl.

She thrashes against him, but his weight is heavy. She huffs, feeling like a raging bull. She's probably growing horns.

"Hawthorne," she hisses.

"I love it when girls say my name as they squirm underneath me."

"Stop being such a disgusting prick."

"That sounds like a term of endearment."

She glares up at him. He's settled between her thighs, and this would be a very suggestive position if she wasn't thinking about raising her feet up and pushing him off her. She's flexible enough. If she can produce enough force, she might just be able to leverage herself out from under him.

It strikes her again that she's the only girl he's sparred with. She wonders if she can use it to her advantage. She attempts to calm her thrashing until only her chest heaves. She'll give him a false sense of acquiescence, letting him think he drains the fight out of her. Should be simple enough. She allows her arms to rest under his grip, which are pinning them to the mat. She eyes the positioning of their lower halves, and she can use that, too.

"So, _prick_ sounds like _sweetie _to you?" she breathes, exaggerating the expanding breaths of her chest.

"From you, yes," he states.

She hopes her hair is spread out behind her, looking fanned and wild. She lifts her hips up a little so that they graze each other. He doesn't react like she wants him to, but he still frowns down at her.

"What are you playing at, Undersee?" He's suspicious. He's not falling for it. She knew he probably wouldn't, but…can't hurt a girl to try.

"Oh, nothing," she drawls in a sigh. "I just get so…_wound up_ when I spar. I'm sure you understand."

He stares at her for a moment. She can almost see the wheels turning behind his eyes. "Do you?" His tone is inscrutable, but he surprises her by lowering his weight deeper onto her. The added pressure makes her release a sigh—and while he maintains the stoicism of a knight, she thinks she can play it up just a little bit more.

"Yes." She presses up into his weight and it's then that she feels it. The lessened grip on her arms. His momentary lapse in concentration. She smiles at him, and his eyes dart from her face to her lips. The suspicion is still there, but his attention is diverted.

She slips her arms out from under him, leveraging upwards and bringing her right foot to push into his side. He lands on his hip, but he grabs her ankle. She jerks her leg, but he twists it around and she bares her teeth at the pain. He hops up onto his feet, still holding her ankle, and she has to turn onto her stomach to avoid the sensation of her ankle breaking.

"Ugh! Hawthorne!"

"I knew you were acting too strange," he states. "It'll take more than you batting your lashes at me, Undersee."

She rolls her eyes. He lets go of her foot.

"More than batting lashes. So are you saying pelvic thrusts will be your undoing?" she asks flippantly.

He smirks. "I wouldn't say my undoing, but I won't say no if you're willing."

"Gross," she mutters, standing.

"You're the one who gets so _wound up_ during our fights."

"Please. I saw the way you looked at me."

"How did I look at you?"

"Lustfully."

"I didn't think you were delusional until now, Undersee."

She internally grumbles. She had been hoping he'd become uncomfortable or blush or…something that didn't she through her half-assed attempts. He's right. She saw nothing in his eyes besides suspicion.

She faces him. She raises her fists. "Alright. Try to break my ankle."

"Will you go to the Med Bay if I do?"

His words sound sarcastic, but she shrugs. "Honestly, I don't think you'd have the guts to truly break it."

His eyes rake along her feet. His knees soften into a slight bend. "Challenge accepted."

She ends up breaking his nose with a back fist. She remembers the satisfying crunch of cartilage against the back of her hand, the booming snap vibrating into her bones. Her victory lasted all of three minutes before he was able to break her fibula in retaliation. His nose gushed all over the mat, and both were covered in his blood by the time they made their way to the medical site. They're healed within twenty minutes, but they glare across the stations at each other every second of those twenty minutes.

"You looked cute with a swollen, smashed face. You should think about leaving it as a fashion statement," she says.

"It's nothing compared to you hobbling like an old man. You looked like one, too, hunched over, trying not to fall down. You could use a cane to complete the ensemble."

"How did it feel to hurt a woman? I thought that would have gone against your values as a man."

"It might have, had I hurt a lady."

The nurse fixing her broken bone tuts at his response. "I'm glad you broke his nose," she whispers to Madge.

"Me, too." Madge smiles.

* * *

He stops giving advice. She stops using feminine wiles. They are quiet and vicious, sending punches and kicks like barbs. When their attacks land, they sting like venom. It pulses into their minds, a snake slithering and hissing.

Though this ritual can't be considered fun, and it is far from mandatory, they meet almost every evening after their respective work duties. When Madge walks into the padded sparring room, she doesn't have to be polite or professional. She isn't impressing anyone. The day's matters are behind her, lingering in the back of her mind, bundling up inside her like a precarious snowdrift.

The gym is close. It's in the same building where all of the government sanctioned duties are located. Similar to a boarding school, Madge never has to leave the building if she doesn't want. Employees are given an apartment—more like a glorified bedroom and small kitchenette—a cafeteria that is open twenty-four hours, this gym with several sparring rooms, and their work divisions. Broken up into wings, Madge works in the East Wing on the twentieth floor. She is under the direction of Paylor, dismantling and reconstructing information and intelligence. While mostly behind a desk, she is occasionally tasked with field work and because of the dangers that crop up in the Capitol Districts, all employees have been designated to go through rigorous physical training. In the beginning, Madge hadn't realized how much she would enjoy fighting. Until the war, Madge hadn't realized how…angry she was.

Gale jabs and hooks. She evades his fist by less than an inch, the _whoosh_ of air pummeling against her chin. He raises his knee to jam into her abdomen, but she hops out of the way.

Gale works in the West Wing, with engineering and development. His field work includes experiments with weaponry, explosives, combat armor. She had thought he would shy away from that type of thing after the end of the war, but he embraced it, instead.

He's on the offensive this evening. He's usually content with mocking her pitiful advances, baiting her with a rigid defense.

"Hard day at work?" she huffs.

He doesn't answer her for a while, continuously sending punches and kicks, ducking when she tries to ply him with an attack of her own. At this rate, he'll punch himself out.

When he pauses his onslaught, he says, "No."

She lunges, he sidesteps and jabs. She ducks.

"You sure? A scrub didn't say something to hurt your feelings?"

He's angry, too. He just hides it better than she does.

She swings, and it's wide. He grabs her arm, pinning it against her and pushing her to the ground. She grunts when she lands prone on the mat, his grip pressing into her. It's unnecessarily aggressive, and she squirms.

"You need to learn how to defend yourself against people bigger than you."

"I know _how. _The purpose of this is to fight, not claw your eyes out." As much as she would like to. The unspoken rules of this is to punch, kick, and grapple. The occasional dick shots happen, sure, or the chest punches that are nearly debilitating, but nothing so savage that she would allow in a street fight. Biting, scratching, jamming her fingers into his eyes or ramming his nose up to his brain. Their medical resources are good, but they aren't that good.

He lets her go, and she hops up, shaking out her arm. They circle each other like lions.

"I'm surprised you haven't tried."

"It isn't that I wouldn't like to."

He jumps forward and she skitters out of the way. He roundhouse kicks and she slips under it, sending a jab to his ribs. He blocks and whips an elbow to her jaw. She jerks back, but it clips the edge of her chin. She stumbles back a bit, swallowing blood from her teeth cutting into her tongue. She glares at him. His cheeks are flushed from the adrenaline of the fight.

His eyes burn bright from the hit. Once, his face would contort with hesitation or guilt, even regret when she'd sustain a cut or absorb the slightest of punches. Now, if she doesn't stumble to the mat or pass out or bleed tremendously, his concern is nonexistent.

She's taught him well, she thinks. He's finally treating her as an equal and not, as he would parrot annoyingly, a girl. As if being a different gender made her inferior.

She rushes him, and he evades. She anticipates it, grabbing his neck and twisting her body around with a knee. She wants to hit his face, but she ends up hitting his chest. His breath puffs out from the force, but he continues to spin them from her momentum. He hauls her off and throws her to the side. She lands in a graceless roll, sitting in a crouch, but he's on her in a second. They are a bundle of flailing limbs and sloppy punches and kicks. He grabs and attempts to subdue one of her wrists. She bucks and twists, kneeing him in the ribs again. He shoves her leg to the side, pressing his knee into her thigh. His weight is too heavy, and the point of his kneecap is painful. She groans sharply, letting an elbow fly at his face. It hits his cheek, and it swells immediately. He grabs and pins her other arm down. She has one free leg, but his proximity renders it useless. She scowls at him, both of their bodies taut with tension, waiting for the other to lose their concentration and form an opening.

The point of his knee is blazingly painful. It's too distracting. Her bruise is going to be massive, and she doesn't think she'll be able to wait him out long enough. Eventually, she grunts, "Let up, Hawthorne."

He smiles. It's slow and it's small, but it is just as irritating as the rest of him. He releases her and stands. He holds a hand out for her, but she ignores it and pushes herself up. Her leg wants to buckle, the pain shooting and intense. She walks it off, limping for several feet before it's dulls.

"You alright?" he asks.

"Haven't I told you to stop asking?"

"Doesn't mean I won't stop asking."

"Do yourself a favor and shut up," she growls.

He seems amused at her reaction, and it makes her glare that much more venomous. He's becoming immune to her acidic tactics. It's disheartening.

"If concern makes you this angry, I'm going to keep doing it."

She says nothing, only stares him down. He rolls his neck and settles into his fighting stance. She tests out her left leg, jumping on it a few times to make sure it won't give out. When it doesn't, she rushes at him, punching, blocking, kicking at his shin. He sweeps his foot at her right leg, and she swiftly evades it. He surprises her and swings his foot at her inner left thigh, and it smacks her on her injury. She sucks in a breath and crumples to the mat.

"Fuck," she hisses under her breath.

Gale hovers but doesn't say anything. She kneels for a moment, waiting for the pain to pass through her. It takes longer than she wants. Impatient, she goes to stand and almost topples over.

"Madge—"

"Don't start. We're done tonight," she snaps.

He watches her limp to the exit. "You sure you don't want that cane?"

She gives him one last glower before leaving through the door. If she cranes her ears, she can hear him chuckling after her.

* * *

One evening, she's late. She's very late. They haven't traded contact information on the sole principle of why would they ever voluntarily talk to one another outside of sparring? She doesn't think he'll be there, but she decides to go. She'll get in a quick run then go home.

She's surprised to see him still there. He's hitting a weighted punching bag, sweat dripping down the sides of his face. He's topless, and she rolls her eyes at that. His knuckled fists are an angry red. He should have wrapped them. He kicks once, twice, then leans against it, breathing heavily before he grabs his towel and wipes at his forehead.

"Didn't think you'd still be here," she says.

He glances up at her across the room. "Didn't think you'd come."

"I was on assignment. Lasted longer than I thought it would."

"Out on the field?"

"Yes," she answers.

"Put any of our lessons to use?"

"I wish. It was only long, tedious work. Nothing exciting."

"Sometimes tedious is better."

"It's never better."

"We're not immortal," he says. "Better to be boring than get hurt."

She quirks an eyebrow at him, dropping her duffel bag and wrapping her hands. "I didn't think you'd be one to believe that."

He shrugs, giving a few halfhearted punches at the bag before stepping away. "We've had casualties in our line of work. The war wasn't kind to us, either."

_No,_ she thinks. It wasn't kind. Nothing is kind.

She eyes his chest, shiny with sweat. "You finished with the bag?"

He shrugs. "We could go a few rounds. I have nothing better to do."

"You haven't worn yourself out?"

He grins. "I'm rejuvenated by your presence."

Sometimes, he says the most ridiculous things. "You say that now."

His sweat ends up making him slippery. It's harder to get her hands on him, but his movements are markedly slower. His fatigue allows for her to land more jabs than normal, and she evades his lunges much more easily.

For the first time in a while, she's able to pin him down into the mat. He stares up at her with a lazy smile, his eyes shining and the ridge of his cheeks pink under the olive skin.

"You weren't trying very hard," she says.

"I was definitely trying," he answers. "I was just happy to see you, that's all. Must have made me less vicious than usual."

She rolls her eyes again. She's sure he's gotten away with a lot in his lifetime using his charm. Being cheeky. Smiling lopsidedly so that a dimple appears beside his lips. She's only uncertain about what he thinks he'll get from trying now. He's lost the fight. His arms are lax under her hands. His stomach rises and falls with his heavy breathing. She isn't vulnerable to his charm, and he's aware of it.

"Aw, were you worried about me, Hawthorne?" she mocks.

"Of course I was," he says. "We both know what happened to your old partner."

Her old partner, incapacitated by a bomb. Sure. He's still alive and breathing, but he's now physically incapable to go on field work, forever destined to be behind a desk.

Unless, of course, their bioengineering and medical facilities improve in the next few years. She won't hold her breath.

"Marc is still alive," she says, perturbed by his answer.

"His life is changed forever."

"He's alive. He'll learn his new normal."

He goes to move his arms, but she holds him fast. He sighs.

"You win."

"Only because you were already so gassed."

"Yeah. You hardly weigh a thing," he says, shifting underneath her. "Shouldn't take much to flip you over." It sounds like a threat, but he doesn't follow through.

"Want me to tell you when I get home?" She leans forward. "When I'm safely tucked in my bed?"

"Last I checked, it wasn't an awful thing to care about your partner."

"Last I checked, it's not worth the effort."

"Is that what you told Marc?"

"We weren't friends."

He sighs again, closing his eyes in exhaustion. "We're not friends either, but we're still assigned to each other."

"Oh, Hawthorne," she drawls. "You're more sentimental than I thought."

He scowls at this. He looks insulted. He opens his eyes to glare, and Madge realizes how close they've become. Her chest is inches from his own. His silver eyes gleam under the lighting, reminding her of bullets in his anger.

"What are you, Madge? Afraid of a little emotion?"

She bristles. "Don't be stupid. I only care about the things that matter. No distractions. Nothing unnecessary."

"What's that? Yourself?"

Her hands squeeze around his wrists, her force increasing.

"Does it make you angry that I care about you less than you care about me?"

He raises a brow. His breath hits her face. "I care about a lot of people. I care about you because you're my partner, and that shouldn't make you angry."

It does make her angry. Irrationally. Unwarranted. A dry fuse, flickering at the merest brush. Rather than sadness, it's anger. Rather than happiness, it's anger. A default. She didn't always used to be this way, but when she woke up to the smoke of her home, when her father blew up beside her, his body scattered all around her like a popped balloon filled with confetti, when her mother wouldn't wake up from her coma and had to be left behind—_cut our losses, Madge, she's dead weight, we'll never make it out of here if we bring her with us_—she became...

She became the girl sparring a Seam boy in District Two, a year after the war.

She edges off of him. His sweat has seeped into her tank top.

"It shouldn't," she whispers. "But it does."

He watches her, and the silver in his eyes seeps into her like his sweat.

She stands up and steps over him, heading towards a treadmill. "I'm going to finish with a run."

He sits up. "You wouldn't give me your number if I asked for it, would you?"

He asks it blithely. She shakes her head at him.

"Go home, Hawthorne."

He sits for a moment more before grabbing his things, shoving a shirt on, and leaving her to her sprints.

* * *

When Gale is late a few evenings later, Madge wonders if it's in retaliation to her previous tardiness.

She waits an hour, jogging for a while, then punching the weighted bag for the rest of the time. It isn't the same, and she becomes bored of it quickly. As she goes to leave, she runs into Gale in the threshold of the entrance.

"Sorry I'm late," he says, breathlessly. "Got caught up."

She's close enough to see the ruffle in his collar, the stain of lipstick he missed under the shadow of his jaw. Easily overlooked had he been in a rush, and it looks like he had been. His hair is fluffed and askew. He's breathing like he's been running.

"Leaving already?" He glances at his watch. "It's only been an hour."

She thinks about lying. _I have a date,_ she wants to say. _I didn't think you were going to show._

Instead, she says, "Cute. You came all this way after spending time with your lady friend?" She swipes her finger over the lipstick and rubs it against his breast pocket. "Must not have been a very good time."

He blinks in surprise before he recovers, smirking.

"She'll be waiting when I get back. I'd never miss an appointment to see you."

"Does she know about us?"

"I have no secrets."

"I'm surprised she isn't jealous."

"She doesn't know how to fight."

"You don't want to teach her?"

"She's...not the fighting type."

"Hm. She doesn't want the opportunity to pin you underneath her? Her loss."

She walks back into the gym. He follows behind her, beginning to smile.

"No, she does pin me. It's more a mutual thing, though."

"If it's so mutual, why'd you come here?"

His smile is now a grin, and she thinks she walked right into his trap.

"Why be pinned by one woman when I can also be pinned by you?"

She pinches the bridge of her nose and groans. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

"You make it too easy."

When he does pin her to the mat, she huffs. "Does she ever let you crawl on top of her like this?"

"A little less violently. Yes."

She stares at him and he stares back. Challengingly, she says, "Which do you prefer?"

A quiet pause passes, and she can see he weighs his answer. She's waiting for the cheeky response, the _why have a preference when I can have both?_

Instead he leans forward, hips settling against her own. "I'm here, aren't I?"

A terrible fire ignites against the wick of her rage. It burns a different color, and her throat narrows like it is pinched between two fingers.

She eyes the shadow underneath his jaw, imagining a stranger's lips there, feeling the tender give of his skin. His collar underneath slender fingers, curled and craving and bringing him closer.

She thinks about it. She thinks about slipping her hands out from underneath his own, sliding them around the back of his neck, bringing his head down to hers. It wouldn't be as painful as a knee, but the impact would be just as powerful.

She bucks him off, rolling out from under his legs. She kicks, he spins around to evade. She pounces on him, and he flings her off to the side. She tucks into another roll, hopping up and running at him again. Unsuccessful. She runs again and again until his legs finally buckle, and she has him on the ground, pinned underneath her. He grins up at her, a deviousness pervading his face. She wants to slap it off. Instead, she pushes her forearm into his neck until he wheezes. She squeezes his thighs together with her own, but she knows she isn't strong enough to hold him there. It takes her a second to realize he's letting her, and she scowls.

"Stop going easy," she hisses.

"I'd rather you be on top of me," he huffs.

She grunts, her frustration building. Her indecision wars within her. The wick burns brightly.

She removes her forearm and relishes the way he looks. Disheveled, damp, the artery booming in his neck.

"I'd rather that, too," she hears herself say. She reaches for his neck, leans her body forward, slamming them together. She kisses him.

He doesn't kiss her back.

* * *

Her embarrassment trumps her rage, for once. She remembers rearing backwards, her eyes widening, his look of surprise.

"Madge, I...I have a girlfriend."

She's never been so horrified. She's never read something so...so _wrong._

"But—" _you kept flirting with me._

_You're here, instead. You're not in her bed. You're on a gym mat with me._

_You said you cared about me._

They all sound like petulant pleas. She'll despise herself if she says any of them and, inevitably, her rage encompasses everything after the initial shock passes.

She stands. She hurriedly grabs her duffel bag by the door, wanting to spew something mean at him. Something to hurt him. Nothing comes to mind, and she finds she is only stewing in the coldness filling her belly.

"Madge—"

"Undersee. It's _Undersee_."

She doesn't look at him as she leaves.

Now, here she is in her office, wondering if she should even go to the gym. She doesn't want to. The mere thought makes her stomach shrivel up. She contemplates about calling Paylor to request another partner change.

"Ya don't seem too excited for your evening soiree," Marc drawls from his computer. His neck, chest, and abdomen are still healing from being blasted by an explosion, and he wears protective netting and bandaging underneath his uniform. His leg is still in a cast, broken and burned, resting on another computer chair beside him. The cast is cut off every few days for wound debridement as the burns heal. He suggested that she come with him, once, because it was _cool. _And painful. But cool.

He's taken his new assignment well. He only required a few weeks to come to terms. She remembers the grimace in his face those weeks, watching her gear up for the field, using his words as jabs to make up for his inability to physically punch.

She grumbles at him. "Shut up, Marc." He knows Madge well enough. He knows she angers without much goading. He's found his other pastime to tease her about Gale, though it's unfounded. Madge has never talked to Marc about anything other than spreadsheets, and she suspects he does it because he has nothing better to do.

He hums at her, going back to typing. "Ya always run off. So eager."

She shifts her weight, pummeling him with a glare. "Eager to leave this room and punch something."

"Rub it in, why don't ya."

He's a bruiser, big and meaty. His fingers look too big for the keys, but his clumsiness has improved since the accident, mostly out of sheer necessity.

She looks down at her desk, stalling. She doesn't have to go, but it feels sacrilegious. She shoves her duffel strap onto her shoulder and heads out the door. She walks slowly down the hallway. The gym is only a seven minute walk away. Her rooms are fifteen minutes away.

Her indecision is shameful. When she eventually walks into the gym, Gale is nowhere in sight. He's not in their sparring room. He's not on a machine. He's not punching a bag. She breathes a sigh of relief. As she picks a program to run on the treadmill, she wonders why she thought he'd show.

_I'd never miss an appointment to see you._

She frowns, clicking up the speed. She means to let herself fall into a leisurely jog to warm up. It's not enough. She turns the speed up a few more clicks.

_Is this the only way to get you this close to me?_

It takes too long for her heart rate to rise. She clicks up some more.

_I'd rather you be on top of me._

Such an ass. Such an arrogant little piece of shit. She's a fool.

Soon, she's sprinting. She's burning up. She's on a high wire, lava underneath her feet. Embers are all but floating around her.

She knows exactly what he's doing right now. Pressing a pretty girl's body down into a mattress that is infinitely more comfortable than a gym mat. A body that is soft with curves instead of hard, harsh angles.

She's on fire. She's _on fire._ When she can no longer breathe, she hits the emergency stop button on the machine. She hops off and leans over, pressing her hands into her thighs before she places them on top of her head, gulping as much air as she can.

It's almost as good as fighting.

She goes to one of the weighted punching bags in the middle of the public room, and she imagines Gale's cowardly face—cowardly because she managed to make her way here and he didn't. That, at least, will be her victory for tonight.

"Such. A. Prick." She breathes, each punch punctuating her words. She grabs onto it and knees it, over and over, thinking about his stomach. All hard and taut muscle. Her sweaty hands slip on the bag, and it reminds her of when he forwent a shirt, and of the countless times he lifted up the bottom to wipe down his face.

"Stupid." She huffs. "Stupid. Abs. Stupid. Face."

"Stupid face?"

She gasps, whirling around and throwing a surprised punch. Gale catches it. She rips it away, backing away from him.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, belatedly realizing what a silly question it is.

He gives her a bemused look. "What I always do here. Why do you seem surprised?"

He doesn't seem the least bit hesitant or abashed or...oh, what is she expecting? A blushing, stuttering little boy?

An awkward meeting? A stilted, uncertain makeup? And makeup for what? Her rash impulsiveness to follow her want instead of her rage?

She glances at her watch. "You're late."

"We've been late more often. Doesn't mean anything."

She pushes past him, shoving her shoulder into his arm. "I've already finished my workout. Find another partner."

He follows her. "Oh, I see now."

"See what?"

"You're mad at me."

"I can't be mad at something else?" She goes to the locker and slams the door open, grabbing her duffel bag. "I guess you're too self-absorbed to see that it doesn't have to be about you."

"Okay, well if it isn't about me you can still take it out on me. We can spar. You can kick my ass as much as you'd like."

She huffs, the rage simmering. It's been dulled by her previous sprints, and she's thankful.

"Look, Hawthorne. You're late. I'm tired. Find someone else to spar with." She pauses. "Or better yet, go back to your apartment and fuck your girlfriend. It's just like fighting, isn't it? On a mattress instead of a padded floor."

He grabs her wrist. She jerks away from him, her skin burning from his touch like she placed her palm on a hot stove. Her mind instantly thinks about Marc's debridement sessions and all the tissue that is trying to heal.

"What's your deal, Madge? Are you jealous or something?"

Laughter peals out of her. "No! I'm _embarrassed._" She hates admitting it, but his facial expression is worth the admission. "I kissed you, and I'm embarrassed. That's all."

"You shouldn't be. Just because I—"

"Rejected me, I shouldn't feel the least bit ashamed?" she finishes, shaking her head. "It's pathetic. I'm sending in a request to be re-assigned. Nice knowing you, Hawthorne."

He follows her out of the gym. It makes her fume.

"That's a bit dramatic. One little kiss doesn't change anything."

He would say something like that. She's kissed two boys in her lifetime, him included. One little kiss. She's a fool.

"Maybe not for you, but it does for me. I don't want to see you again."

"Madge—"

"_Undersee."_

"I want to keep being your partner."

"Unfortunate, because I don't."

He grunts. "Is this payback for the kiss?"

"It certainly seems that way, doesn't it?"

"Madge…"

"_Undersee._ How many times do I have to say it?"

They are halfway to her apartment. She wonders when she'll shake him.

"A lot of girls have shown interest in me. I didn't know you liked me. You said you didn't care."

She stops in her tracks. She whirls on him.

"That's the thing. I don't like you. I don't care. The ship has sailed. Goodbye."

She stalks back down the hallway. He trails her.

"You've been lying to me."

She turns and glares at him. "Stop reading into things."

"For a ship to have sailed, it had to be docked. You like me."

"Past tense now, Hawthorne. You missed it."

He follows her the rest of the way. When they're at her door, she's not sure what else to tell him. She's tired, she's angry, and she's…confused. Indecisive. He's the only one who has been able to make her uncertain of herself in a long time. She doesn't like it. He has to go.

"Gale…" she starts, staring at her door. She feels his presence behind her like a warm shadow. "I no longer want to be your partner."

"Who will we fight, then?"

He asks it quietly. She scowls at her door.

"I don't know. The punching bags. Our next partners."

"I don't want to."

She doesn't either. A strange turn of events.

"Madge," he starts. "If I kissed you now, would you reject me, too?"

Suddenly, her heart jams up into her throat. She doesn't dare turn around. "Why would you kiss me? Would it be like a fighting tactic? Luring me back in to change my mind?"

"Both very plausible strategies," he says, his tone quiet. "I like strategies."

"I know," she says, her voice quiet, too. She pulls out her key, placing it into the lock on her door.

"One more sparring session before you decide to be re-assigned," he says, his voice suddenly urgent. "Please."

Gale Hawthorne, saying _please_. She'd make fun of him if she didn't feel so shaky, so off balance.

"Fine," she states, turning her doorknob and walking into her apartment. She doesn't look at him, because she's too afraid of what she'll find.

Even her rage can't conceal her fear.

* * *

The next time they meet, he's already in their room. She's early. She's not sure what his timeliness signifies. A longer sparring session? Saving the best for last?

She shoves her duffle bag against the side wall. "Alright," she states. "I know you have some agenda. What are we doing?"

He eyes her with a searing perusal. She crosses her arms.

"No agenda," he says, falling into his fighting stance. "We only spar until we're too tired to continue."

She raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "That's it?"

"That's it."

The rage begins to cloak her, a dragon wrapping its tail around her abdomen. "Here I thought you'd make our last day together special." She hops back into her stance, waiting and ready.

He comes forward and punches. She ducks and crosses. He sidesteps and kicks. It's a rhythm she knows too well. The rise and fall of his shoulders, the breath he takes before his next real move. The gleam in his eye when she leaves an opening.

Time doesn't exist. They both are breathing heavily when she attempts her takedown, jumping and reaching behind him, kicking out his ankle and hooking her forearm across his neck in a chokehold.

She can feel the pressure of his throat, the desperate rattling of his breath as he struggles. He falls into a half-kneeing position, and she shifts her weight to carry them to the ground. He manages to beat her attempts, rocking forward and flinging her over him as best he can. She awkwardly flips forward, twisting to avoid full impact on the ground. She lands on her feet but readjusts her arms around his neck. She goes to knee him in his abdominals. He weathers the blow, stumbling backwards. She does it again and again, imagining the punching bag, realizing how much better this is, feeling his body against the hard point of her knee.

His back is halted by the wall. The jerk makes her momentum shift, and he uses it, spinning around and pinning her against the wall.

Suddenly, her arms still around his neck, his hips between her thighs, he's angled them into a precarious position. She thinks about bringing back her arm, elbowing him across the cheek and forehead. That will cut him open, and he'll bleed like a stuck pig.

He pushes into her too closely. Her range is effectively diminished, and she's unable to inflict any true damage. She squirms around and struggles, but her movements only increase the surface area of their touch.

His hot breath is hitting her neck. His chest is pushing into her own. The wick of rage instantaneously morphs from the bleeding red into blazing, cool blue.

"Is this what you wanted?" she inquires. "Your agenda?"

"No agenda," he states, and he says nothing more. His eyes gleam continuously, but there is no opening she's allowing. She won't give him what she thinks he wants—another try, another kiss. It will be his finishing blow if he rejects her, once more, to finish their months of spar sessions.

"You'll be waiting forever if you don't let me go," she says, his face too close to look at anything else.

"Then I guess I'll be waiting forever."

"You don't have the patience."

"I have the confidence."

"Not what you need."

"Not for waiting," he says. "But it's good for this."

She doesn't know what he means until he brings his face forward, just an inch, and he's kissing her. It is so full and brazen that Madge gasps involuntarily, her entire body stiffening, and Gale takes advantage. His tongue dips into her mouth, rippling the still pond in the deep, hidden trenches of her. His hands fold into her hips, grasping and holding her there. His body is touching her everywhere, and the force of it is so overwhelming, it is uncontrollable for her to keep from reacting. Like a knee buckling, her hands come around the back of his head. Her thighs wrap around his hips in a lazy hug.

The breath heavily as they break apart and come back together, eagerly meeting each other between sharp inhalations. They bite and bruise their lips, as merciless as their sparring, punching and locking them together, brutal and unrelenting. It becomes a battle of attrition and want, lack of oxygen making them dizzy, the want fueling them to continue regardless.

Madge feels her lungs screaming, each breath jagged and _not enough_. Her nails scrape his scalp. He moans into her and her thighs shake against the jut of his hips.

He's weakening, too. She can feel it in the gentling press of his lips and the tremble of his arms. She runs her hands down them, and he sighs. A tremor travels through him, and she's surprised she can feel it.

He shifts, continuing to hold her, and he slowly lowers them as best he can to the mat. He rolls so that she's on top of him.

"Undersee," he says. It's as much mocking as it is a tease. "You won."

"Oh, please. You didn't listen. You went easy on me."

He shakes his head. "No, I didn't." He pulls her down and begins kissing her again. She tries not to succumb, but he's a warm ball of heat and flesh and bone underneath her. It is almost too irresistible.

"You did, and it makes me—"

_Want you more._

"—so angry at you."

She kisses him harder. He's grinning against her.

"This doesn't feel like anger."

It isn't anger. She doesn't look at it too closely, saying instead, "What will your girlfriend say?"

He rolls them over, still kissing her, pressing his body into her. Her breath is pushed out of her abdomen.

"I don't know. I don't have one."

"Dropped her so easily, did you?"

He rears up, looking down at her. "You'll be surprised. She dropped me." He leans in close again. "She didn't care about another girl underneath me, after all."

"No girl should," she says, breathlessly. She grabs his arms and uses as much force as she has to roll them. On top once more, she presses their palms together, out to the sides of their bodies. She lies in so their chests meld. She sees it when the tension leaves the threads of his muscles, their fingers intertwining. His eyes are the bright burn of silver, shining so intensely they almost look white under the glare of the light overhead.

"Be the girl underneath me," he says. "Or the one on top of me. The one who stays."

She breathes in his whisper, his serious tease. "I'll be them all."

He lifts his head to kiss her, quietly, without the temptation of fire, without the urgent need to dominate, without the fierceness of a blackout. She kisses him back, her waters rippling with an easy calm. They expand inside of her like gentle beats of a drum.

She is a girl sparring with a boy inside the old heart of a city that had changed her life forever.

For once, her rage is silenced.


End file.
